The Furry Sergeant-Major
by Baron Munchausen
Summary: This is my first modern story, and my first featuring any other couple other than Anthony and Edith. Written for the EAST Alliance Celebrations, I hope I have done Sybil/Tom justice and that their shippers won't feel too badly done by. I've done my best.
1. Chapter 1

"Let me get this straight: you took Isis into Starbucks with you because it was raining." Sybil kept her voice professionally calm and level, although frankly the whole incident amused her and she was definitely on her client's and the dog's side.

"Yes" her client replied just as levelly if a little more earnestly. "She isn't used to it again yet; she's been in Afghanistan for three years, and she was only eighteen months old when she was deployed. And she hasn't quite recovered from her injuries, you see."

"But _you_ have?" Sybil wanted to make sure she understood the situation.

"As well as they ever will" he said in a softer, more bitter tone and glancing down at his right arm in its sling.

"So, tell me in your own words what happened when you went in."

"The barista told me to take Isis outside and leave her there. I asked why. He said it was against the law to have a dog in a coffee shop. I told him that, actually, he would find that it wasn't illegal, as long as she wasn't in the food preparation area. He then…cast doubt on my parentage. I put him right and informed him if he wanted to refer to me again he should call me 'Major' or 'Sir', and that Isis was, in fact, Sergeant-Major Isis. There was a couple who got up from their table to support us; they were very civilised and kind, but there was a young man in the queue who just told me to…well, hurry up and get out, although not in as many words. An argument broke out, and another barista became involved and called for the manager."

"What did you do while all this was happening?" Sybil asked even though the incident report was in front of her. There was a long silence.

"Sir Anthony?" she prompted, kindly.

"I…I couldn't cope…with all that…confrontation and bad feeling. Isis and I…we'd served our country for…what? For this?...I sat down on the floor next to Isis and hugged her and…wept."

"And that's when the Starbucks manager called the Police."

"I suppose…" He continued stroking the dog lying at his feet as he had all through the appointment. Sybil read from the paperwork before her.

"They didn't arrest you but they did call a paramedic who took you to an Accident and Emergency Unit with psychiatric support."

"And none of the doctors or nurses were the least bit bothered by a dog about the place. Poor Isis was a bit worried by all the people and the pushing and shoving and going from one place to another. She was whining a bit by then, picking up on my distress, I expect. She can cope with bombs, IEDs, explosives, and drugs, but not with people shouting."

"A bit like you, in fact." Sybil smiled gently. "So, that's how you came to be referred to us, Major. Well, as I said before, I'm Sybil Crawley and I'm a specialist psychiatric nurse, funded jointly by The Royal British Legion and Help for Heroes. I specialise in supporting people like you…and the furry Sergeant-Major here…who have found themselves affected mentally as well as physically by their experiences in the field. I believe you've been discharged because of your injury?"

"Yes…for three months now."

"Have you felt up to looking for work?"

"Hardly" Anthony scoffed at the thought. "Besides, I'm extremely lucky. I have a private income. I don't need to find another job; the army was my life."

"Family tradition?" Sybil guessed from the clues of wealth and title.

"Yes, partly. My grandfather was in the Intelligence Corps in the First World War. I had rather hoped I might have outranked him before I retired, but Major isn't so bad."

"Better than many" Sybil agreed. "I suggest that we meet once a week to begin with and we can review whether it's being of any use to you after eight sessions. Does that sound appropriate?"

"You're very kind, thank you" replied Anthony, still focussing mostly on Isis.

"I had one more thing to ask, Sir Anthony. Please don't hesitate to say if this makes you uncomfortable in any way, but my sister is an investigative journalist for _The Sentinel_. Her name's Edith Crawley."

"Yes, I know who you mean" Anthony nodded.

"She's writing a piece on the reception of soldiers returning from Afghanistan and how they are treated by the general public. I wonder, would you care to consider being interviewed by her? Your story involves a dog, which always goes down well, and shows both extremes of how veterans are treated. You don't have to tell me whether you've done it or not, but here's her business card, in case it would interest you. I'll see you in a week, Major."

Anthony picked up the rectangle of cardboard and muttered his goodbyes to the pleasant young lady.

"What do you think of that, eh, Isis? Would you like to be a media sensation?" He considered the possibilities, and decided that if his story being publicised stopped any other homecoming soldier going through the humiliation he'd suffered, then it would've been worth it. When he returned home, he rang the number on the card, got through to the messaging service, and left the message that would change his life.

* * *

.

Edith Crawley wasn't picking up her phone because she was at the daily budget meeting for _The Sentinel_. She'd just got herself settled with the stories she wanted published in front of her, when Tom Branson slinked into the chair beside her at the board table.

"Hello, m'lady!"

Edith sighed.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Tom? I don't like being called that!"

"Oh, but it suits you!"

"Stop it, you silly Irish twerp!" They were both smiling. This teasing had been going on since Edith had started there as a rookie investigative journalist, with a determined face and believing that she could change the world. She still believed this, but with more circumspection now, some years and two promotions later. Tom was still the motoring correspondent, a title which didn't quite cover the mixture of good advice, self-deprecating humour, and general entertainment that characterised his column.

"Is that the best you can do? Oh, how adorable!"

"What do you mean?" Edith huffed.

"You swear and trade insults like a schoolgirl. It's so sweet! Do it again!"

Edith elbowed him in the ribs, just as the Editor, Michael Gregson, entered and a hush descended over the table.

"I have good news and bad news I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen. The good news is that the owners have agreed to allow us to continue publishing for another month while they continue searching for a buyer. If they have still not found one then, I'm afraid that will be the end of _The Sentinel_."

There was a stunned silence among the assembled journalists. Michael let it sink in.

"The bad news is that there will be cuts, some effective immediately."

"Do you mean redundancies?" asked a voice from the back.

"Yes, I do. I hope most of them will be voluntary. If you think that might be for you, please do discuss it with Human Resources as soon as possible."

"_Most_ of them? Does that mean there may be some involuntary redundancies?" Tom asked.

"I'm afraid it does." Michael's voice was harsh in responding to him. Tom knew he wasn't one of the Editor's favourites. He told too many truths too forcefully in his plain-speaking Irish way. Of course he wasn't going to get on with a well-oiled political operator like Gregson.

"Well, enough doom and gloom, let's get on with tomorrow's edition. Edith?"

"I've got a small piece about the rise in suicides among graduates, and the piece on conmen preying on older people even more since the recession."

"What about the veterans story?" Gregson asked.

"That will need interviews with veterans to flesh it out" she replied.

"Only one or two, I can't wait any longer for that article. Understand? Tom, what have you got, if anything?"

"Tax inequalities on petrol in Europe and around the world, sugared with some jokes, and a review of the new Range Rover."

"They don't grab me. I don't think they fit. Bring me something else next week, and please put a little effort into it this time. Susan?"

The conversation went on around them. Edith slipped her hand under the table to take Tom's, both of them needing the comfort.


	2. Chapter 2

"He's a fecking bastard!"

Tom was sitting in Edith's kitchen drinking her wine.

"Tell me something new."

"You're all right, Lady Edith. Gregson's got the hots for you. He's not likely to sack a potential mistress, is he?"

"Tom, listen to me. First, I am not interested in Gregson. Second, we don't know how many people may take voluntary redundancy or if any involuntary redundancies will be needed, as yet. And thirdly, if he makes a pass at me I will reject him and if I reject him, I expect that will only promote me up the list of people to be given the heave-ho! Even if I did become his mistress, _which I'm not going to do_, he gets through them at a rate of knots. He'd be bored with me within a month, two at most, and then I would be on the scrap heap to make way for the next bit of fluff. Look at what happened to Rose."

There was a pause while they thought about their situation.

"It's not as though you have to work, Edie. You could go home to Papa. If I lose this job, it's the _Dublin Advertiser_ for me, or starve! _What_ am I going to do?"

"Have another glass, Tom, and remember that it hasn't happened yet, and it may not happen at all. As a matter of fact, I _am_ going home this weekend, for the Downton Classic Car Gathering. There'll be Rollses and Lagondas and Bugattis, anything you care to name pre-1940. Why don't you come with me? It's a private do, just my father and some of his cronies from his club and the surrounding gentry, so you'll have an exclusive. There's bound to be a nice little story in that, don't you think?"

"Wouldn't your father mind having a journalist poking his nose in?"

"Be nice to him and horrid to his pet enemies and all will be well, I assure you. What do you say?"

"I've got nothing to lose.

* * *

.

After she'd kissed Tom goodnight on the cheek and made sure that he was sober enough to get into the taxi and remember where he lived, Edith went over to her desk to check her messages. There were several from colleagues: all routine. There were a couple from Gregson, ostensibly giving her pointers for the article on society's attitudes to the soldiers returning from Afghanistan, but he dropped invitations to coffee and to dinner to discuss these tips into the messages.

"Slimy little bastard!" she murmured to herself, finishing off the last bottle of wine. The last one was from a beautifully-spoken, painfully halting and polite Major who mentioned that he'd been put in touch with her through her sister Sybil. Edith listened to the message three times, because something in Anthony Strallan's voice touched her soul. She went to bed hearing that voice over and over again…

…_I would be honoured to provide you with any information that may assist. It's the least I can do to honour my fallen comrades, and those, like me, who survived although they wish otherwise…_

* * *

_._

Downton Classic Car Gathering was an informal meeting of enthusiasts, hosted by the Earl of Grantham at Downton Abbey and attended by friends, and friends of friends as long as they brought a pre-war car. Thirty or so people turned up each year. Robert didn't know the first thing about cars, but owned an enviable collection and loved them for their beauty and romance.

Edith was showing Tom around.

"You grew up here?"

"Yes. I know: it confirms your every last prejudice about the English aristocracy."

"And then some, m'lady."

"Sorry."

Tom looked at his friend. She actually was apologising for it.

"Edith, don't feel ashamed of it. You didn't ask to be born into all this. And you've worked your way up to where you are now. You should be proud of that."

"Thank you, Tom. I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Oh, the day's yet young. I'm sure I can make up for it!" he smirked back.

"Actually growing up here wasn't all that nice. I had few friends. My parents didn't have a great deal of time to spend on me, and I fought with my sisters a lot, probably because we were cooped up here…more with Mary than Sybil…"

"Sybil what?" said a voice behind them.

Tom turned round and drew a sharp intake of breath. In front of him was the most smoulderingly beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"I was just telling my friend Tom that we didn't really have the Disney Princess childhood here despite appearances. Tom's the motoring correspondent at _The Sentinel_. Sybil's my younger sister."

Tom took Sybil's hand and just held it, his eyes mesmerised by hers. She seemed enchanted for a moment, then blushed and looked at their hands, still touching.

"How do you do?" she breathed.

"All the better for meeting you, my lady" Tom replied with utter honesty, unlike his use of the term to tease Edith, a fact not missed by Edith who saw the sudden difference in Tom's demeanour. The awkward silence was broken by Edith looking from one of them to the other and saying "Yes…well…I think I'll just…go and see if lunch is…". Neither Sybil nor Tom acknowledged her. She stole away, smiling to herself.

"Do you have any interest in classic motors?" It was the best he could come up with.

"I don't know much about them, but they are lovely, aren't they? Works of art as much as machines."

"That's just it. That's why I like cars. Of course most modern cars aren't good to look at, and I find that a fecking shame…pardon my language."

Sybil giggled at his propriety.

"Please don't apologise. I work with soldiers. I've heard it all before. I remember the first time Edith came home after beginning work at _The Sentinel_. She'd learned all sorts of…new words. Papa spluttered with rage, Mama was all Kanga and 'now then, dear' about it, and Granny muttered something about Sodom and Gomorrah."

"I probably taught her all those 'new words'! Edith…doesn't say much about her family."

"It's a shame. Mary, our eldest sister, she's the golden girl. Edith was always second best to her, and then I came along and I…well, I just trod my own path really. But Edith's never got over not being able to earn our parents' approval. She tries so hard."

"Sometimes too hard. What's your work with soldiers?"

"I'm a psychiatric nurse specialising in the treatment of PTSD."

"That's brilliant! I mean, I'm sure you do brilliant work."

"I try. It's very satisfying. It makes a difference."

"Yes, I expect it does."

Tom was still staring at Sybil, as though she wasn't quite real. What she had just said struck a chord. A motoring correspondent: well, it was a job, and most of the time he enjoyed it, less so now that Gregson was editor. But it hardly _made a difference_. Not the way Edith did. Not the way Sybil did.

"What's your background?" she asked, openly interested.

"Born and raised in Dublin. Moved to Northern Ireland for a job, covered the Troubles…yeah." Tom looked down. "Yeah. Anyway, then I got the job at _The Sentinel_ and escaped and I've been there ever since; the tame Irish rebel."

"You were affected by the Troubles?"

"I lost a mate, a fellow journalist. He…he was thoroughly even-handed and fearless. He was a Protestant, unlike me, but he didn't take sides. He reported the truth, including the dreadful things both sides were doing. Eventually someone decided he should be silenced."

Tom was still looking at his feet. Sybil gently placed a hand on his arm.

"Why don't you write about that? There's a lot of healing going on there now. People have got past the 'let's forget it ever happened' stage and want to know the truth, so they can move on."

"Are you sure you aren't a mind-reader?"

"Why?" Sybil smiled.

"Because I'm about to get the sack thanks to our scumbag of an editor, and I…I've been thinking of changing horses anyway. Thanks for the suggestion."

"And then there's always racing. I hear Irishmen are good at that!" Sybil joked. Tom couldn't help the deep laugh that joined hers.

They stopped pretending to look at cars and wandered off in the direction of the house to find a drink and a place to sit and talk.


	3. Chapter 3

Edith had watched her best friend and her younger sister on and off for most of the afternoon. They seemed to be getting on so well, she didn't care to interfere. She was so pleased for them both. Each of them had had altogether too much bad luck. It was time they found some happiness. Only at the very end of the event, when Edith had to go and fetch Tom so that they could get going on the long drive back to London, did Edith suffer a pang of jealousy which she quickly fought down.

_I don't begrudge them their happiness. I really hope it all works out well for them both. But, just once in my life, I'd like to know what that happiness feels like._

"Tom, I hate to cut your day short but we really ought to be leaving if we're going to get back to London before bedtime!"

Tom's face fell, but he continued to look at Sybil.

"You couldn't give me a lift to the station, could you?" Sybil asked.

"If you're going back to London, we could give you a lift all the way if you like" Tom said as nonchalantly as he could.

"Oh that would be great! Thank you. Let me just go and get my things."

Sybil's expression had been one of utter joy as she almost skipped back to the house. Tom looked at Edith sheepishly.

"I'm sorry. I've rather left you alone today. But I am grateful that you brought me."

"I'm very glad of that, Tom Branson. Now, while I have you all to myself, I will tell you that Sybil is the sweetest spirit you are ever likely to meet."

"Yes, she is" he smiled.

"And she is my favourite sister, which means that if you ever hurt her, I will castrate you with a rusty penknife without anaesthetic. Understood?"

"Loud and clear, m'lady."

"And don't call me that!"

* * *

.

Anthony Strallan got up early, as he always did. He woke around dawn from the nightmares these days. He often found Isis pawing at him, worried, and spent some time cuddling and consoling her and himself. Then he forced himself to go through the motions because it helped to have a routine: shower, shave, dress himself as well as he could. He could have afforded a carer or even a valet, but he was fiercely independent and hated the thought. He picked at some toast and gave the rest to Isis, as usual. Then he took her out for a long walk. He preferred to do this before the rush hour, before there were too many people about.

Getting back to his house, he settled down to thinking about his new project: returning to his ancestral home, Loxley Grange in Yorkshire. It had been shut up all the time he'd been in the army and would need a lot of renovation and money throwing at it. It was the beginning of the end for him, he acknowledged. He would get the house running again, move to Yorkshire, and die there, sooner or later, it didn't matter to him which. There was nothing else in his life, nor was there likely to be.

His phone rang: he didn't recognise the number. He almost didn't answer.

"Hello."

"Major Sir Anthony Strallan?" said a bright, but silky voice.

"Yes."

"Edith Crawley here. You were kind enough to leave a message for me."

Two hours later, Edith was waiting for Anthony in the lobby of _The Sentinel_. She saw the dog first. Isis was a rather beautiful yellow Labrador, in lovely condition except that she limped slightly on her rear, right leg. The man with her was quite distinctive. He was well over six feet tall, broad and slim, with blonde hair made even blonder by the Asian sun and incredibly blue eyes. She was about to extend her hand to him in welcome, when she saw the sling around his right hand. While she was deciding on whether to forgo a handshake or try offering her left, the building's security officer approached him.

"I'm sorry, sir, you can't bring your dog in here."

"Why not?" Anthony asked in a weary but polite voice.

"Dogs aren't allowed, except assistance dogs."

"Why not?"

"Er…"

"If assistance dogs are allowed, why aren't other dogs allowed? And why don't you know the answer to that question?"

"It's alright, Ken. He and the dog are here to see me."

"Okay, Lady Edith." The guard moved away.

Edith winced, but Anthony raised an amused eyebrow.

"So you are _the_ Lady Edith Crawley. I wondered."

"Please don't tell me you looked me up in Debrett."

"Why not? I expect you looked me up, didn't you?"

"That was merely professional preparation. And it doesn't tell you anything useful like whether you prefer tea or coffee."

"First of all, I need a bowl of water for Isis, but if it's going to cause problems for you…"

"I know a lovely little place about two streets away that is very dog-friendly, and they do great coffee. Is that alright?"

Anthony was grateful for Edith's diffusion of the situation. He didn't like being assertive about Isis, but he didn't like the way she was refused entry to almost everywhere either. She was a much more valuable member of society than so many humans. They walked to the café, took a comfortable seat, and ordered. Anthony was impressed that Isis's bowl of water was brought without him having to ask.

"You know, Isis and you could write a blog about dog-friendly establishments. I know lots of people would read it."

"Really?" Anthony took a sip of his coffee. "Mmm…I don't think Isis is ready for a second career in journalism yet."

"Is she alright? I saw she was limping."

"Her back leg and pelvis were shattered in the same attack that did this to me. She's much better now, but it'll take a little while longer until her muscles build up and she's fully recovered."

"And you?"

Anthony looked at the pretty young lady sitting next to him. Nothing he could say, nothing he could do would ever change the horrid truth he was about to put words around.

"Paralysed by a sniper's bullet moments before the mortar went off that killed the rest of my team. If I hadn't been on the ground because of this, I would've been a goner too. That might have been for the best." He stared into his coffee cup, unaware that his words had touched Edith's heart.

"Not for Isis. What would she have done without you?" murmured Edith.

She was looking up into his eyes with friendliness, yes, but with something else that he couldn't quite identify.

"You're a very perceptive young lady, aren't you? Yes, Isis is the only person who keeps me going. And without me there to look after her, I suspect the Veterinary Corps would've put her down."

"That would have been a tragedy. She's a heroine. Just as you are a hero. So, are you really happy for me to interview you about this. I can see that you're not comfortable discussing it."

"Not here, in public. But perhaps we could meet somewhere more private? Somewhere Isis _is_ allowed?"

"Would you like to come to my place for dinner this evening?" Edith couldn't help the nervousness that leeched into her voice.

"I'd love that." Anthony allowed himself this, knowing that Edith was only thinking of the most convenient way to accommodate his dog. Yes, that was it. This wasn't a date or anything.

* * *

.

Tom Branson was in the office looking at the desk phone as though it had just grown there. Eventually he picked it up and dialled the number written on the back of his diary. It went to messages.

"Erm…Hi! Hi, Sybil, it's me, Tom Branson, Edith's friend. We met at the car do last weekend? Erm…I was wondering if I could talk to you about your idea…you know, writing about the Troubles. It's just that, I only know it from a civilian point of view and I'd be really grateful for a bit of guidance on the military perspective and what the pitfalls might be…I'll buy you dinner in exchange? If you're interested. Okay, well, hope to hear from you. I think I gave you my number, but just in case here it is again. Right. Well. Bye."

He put the phone down and muttered to himself _You're supposed to be a journalist…you know, _good_ with words…you fecking eejit._


	4. Chapter 4

Isis was bored. Her master and this female human had been talking and eating for what seemed like hours, and were showing no signs of stopping yet. She turned over and went back to sleep.

"…and that was the point at which Isis decided to squat. She couldn't have timed it better." Anthony and Edith were helpless with laughter. "Of course I offered to clean it up, but the woman just screamed obscenities at me, so I walked off."

"Serves her right for calling you a murderer. Would you say that you've had more hostile encounters than benign ones?" Edith asked.

"About equal I'd say among those that have even bothered to say anything. Most people look at the sling and the dog, think I'm homeless, and look away. Sometimes I just want to shout at them that I'm a Major in…_was_ a Major in the British Army, that I'm a baronet. But that's…that's not _me_. It hurts…the prejudice hurts, but I don't _want_ to counter it with pulling rank. I think what's most depressing is the thought that, for the rest of my life, all my new encounters with be coloured by being a cripple."

Edith thought for a moment of her own reaction, and blushed knowing she was as guilty as anyone, but she hoped she hadn't shown it.

"Cripple? That's quite harsh. You obviously cope extremely well by yourself." Anthony shrugged, but Edith continued. "And I hope I didn't react in any given clichéd way when you met me."

"No, you didn't, that's true" Anthony smiled. "At least I didn't notice it. Isis may have."

"Shall we ask her?"

"Isis. What do you think of Lady Edith, Isis? Is she okay?" Isis jumped up immediately and went to Edith's side. Anthony had deliberately used the words and tone of voice that he'd used to train Isis to check something or someone over for drugs or explosives. Isis sniffed Edith all over while wagging her tail glad to have something to do at last, making Edith giggle delightedly. Anthony thought Edith would find that amusing. But then Isis did something more. Instead of just sitting down again next to Anthony (the all-clear sign), or sitting next to Edith with her tail still (the danger sign), Isis licked Edith's face and hands, something she'd never done before to a stranger. Anthony looked at them both, dumbfounded.

"I think that's a resounding 'yes'. Thank you, Isis!" Edith rubbed her hands and face on Isis's fur.

Back at his house, later that evening, as Anthony and Isis were settling down for bed, he thought about the incident again.

"What was all that about, Isis? Eh? I know Edith is nice, but…well, more than just nice actually. She's…lovely. But there was no need for all those kisses! What got into you? I wouldn't have…" and then he stopped, suddenly realising that he would have; that that was what he wanted with all his heart.

Isis cocked her head, looked at him, and then curled back into her bed. Sometimes humans could be so dense: they just didn't see things even though they were right in front of their noses.

* * *

.

A few miles away, in a rather nice little restaurant, Tom Branson and Sybil Crawley were having dinner.

"How old were you when you went to Belfast?" she asked.

"Nineteen. A mere babe. I knew nothing. But you grow up fast when you have to."

"I wouldn't know. I didn't have to."

"But you have. Don't tell me you don't see life, red in tooth and claw, being a psychiatric nurse."

"I suppose. We have some ex-servicemen with anger issues, but they aren't the worst. The worst are those who are quiet and don't want to share their horrors with you, because they want to spare you. The suicide rate among those sorts is the highest of all. That's the most horrible bit of the job, to be honest. To hear that another one has blown his brains out, that you tried to help him, and failed."

"Surely it isn't your fault. At least you tried" Tom tried to soothe her, putting his hand on hers.

"Well, we…the psychiatric team…we support each other when it happens, but it's still upsetting. The thing is that there is so little for these people to come back to once they've been discharged. They can't all become paralympic sports stars."

"Why did you choose psychiatric nursing, rather than medical?"

"I started out in medical nursing, we all do. But I find this is more fitted to what I'm good at…listening to people, empathising with them, giving them encouragement. I find it very satisfying…and it got up my family's nose!"

Tom laughed.

"What are they like?"

"Papa is bewildered by the modern world…he refuses to have an Ipad or a smartphone, and only allows the office to have a computer under sufferance. Most of the time he just likes pottering about on the estate and having meetings with the National Trust. Mama is more practically minded…she runs the house really. She was born in America but she's been here more years than she spent in America now. Granny…that's Papa's mother is a ferocious old dragon and the archetypal Dowager Countess, but she's a softy underneath it all. She misses being in charge of the big house and has to find other things to do. She's at her worst when she isn't occupied, but she meddles with village and county politics and we keep an eye on her, just in case she gets herself into any scrapes! Mary, my eldest sister is what you might call an ice-queen, but that's just a façade: underneath it all she's passionate about preserving the house for future generations and gets involved with stuff like that elsewhere. Things haven't been going brilliantly for her husband and her recently, something to do with family planning, but we're all keeping our fingers crossed for them. And then there's Edith, but you know her! What's your family like?"

"It's just my brother Kieran and me now. My Da worked as a gate porter at Trinity College and made sure that Kieran and I were properly educated. It was his dream that we would go to Trinity as students and it was my proudest day when I made that dream come true for him. He died of a heart attack about fifteen years ago now. Ma followed about five years after him."

"We've both managed to do something that we weren't necessarily born to" Sybil smiled.

* * *

.

Sybil's phone rings, about a week later.

"Sybil! It's me, Edith. I just wanted to know if you were definitely going to Aunt Rosamund's birthday party on Saturday, because I am. I was thinking of bringing Anthony Strallan along, but I know he's a client of yours. Is that alright with you?"

"Yes, that's fine by me. I won't mention it, and it's up to him whether he does or not. And, Edith? I was rather hoping to invite Tom…Tom Branson. Is that okay?"

"More than. She says 'no presents' on the invitation, which means Tiffany or better."

Edith laughed.

"You know her so well! I'll see you there! Bye."


	5. Chapter 5

Anthony was never late for anything. So he and Edith were the first to arrive at Rosamund's in Eaton Square for her birthday party armed with a beautiful brooch from Liberty's (him) and a pen from Tiffany's (her). Rosamund thought the gifts were delightful and started grilling the couple on how they'd met and how long they had known each other, ending with "Edith, you are a strange girl. You always did prefer older friends".

Thankfully, Edith's and Anthony's stunned, embarrassed silence was ended when the next few guests appeared and Rosamund went to see them.

"I'm sorry about my aunt, Anthony. She doesn't have any children of her own, you see, and so she gets all maternal around me and my sisters, but she rather lacks tact."

"One doesn't choose one's family. I'm sure she's very nice. She liked the gifts."

"Oh, Aunt Ros loves presents. That's the only reason she has these parties, I'm sure of it!" Edith joked.

Tom and Sybil arrived a bit later with more jewellery (Sybil) and a very fine bottle of old Irish Whiskey. Rosamund thought Tom was really rather lovely and began flirting with him in the most shameless manner, while also asking when the wedding would be, when Sybil decided enough was enough and intervened to drag Tom over to see Edith and Anthony.

"Why'd you do that?" Tom complained, utterly deadpan. "I thought I had my feet under the table there!"

"Because Aunt Ros would eat you for breakfast, that's why. Here have a drink!"

"Hi Tom! Have you been Rosamund-grilled yet?" asked Edith.

"She's quite, quite charming" Tom responded "and her wine is even better than yours Eed! I feel I've met my soulmate!" Tom looked at Anthony.

"Oh, sorry, I don't think you two have met. Anthony, this is Tom who works with me at the paper. Tom, this is Anthony. I'm…"

"Edith's writing about my experiences as an ex-soldier" Anthony explained, not leaving anything to chance after his run-in with Rosamund.

"Oh, yeah, she's told me about the article. Who's looking after the dog?"

"Isis is having a well-earned day off. I have a friend who does agility training and Isis loves it." Anthony replied.

"Don't you do agility yourself?" Tom asked.

Anthony looked at the young man with a mixture of gratitude for his lack of prejudice and pain.

"Not since I was invalided out of the army, no."

"It's no more than just the arm, isn't it? Sorry, why does a dumb arm stop you running about after a dog? It's the dog who does all the work, isn't it?" Tom took another drink, but continued looking at Anthony with open, honest eyes. Edith held her breath, wondering whether to intervene on Anthony's behalf. Then Anthony laughed out loud.

"Of course the dog does all the work, and of course the arm shouldn't stop me, should it? Why has it taken a friend of a friend to convince me that those damn physios didn't know what they were talking about? Thank you Tom." He offered his left hand, which Tom shook with his.

"Oh God…" Edith spun to turn her back towards the entrance hall.

"What is it?" Anthony whispered, concerned.

"Hell's bells, it's Gregson" muttered Tom, watching the man present his gift to Rosamund and flirt with her outrageously "our editor. Oh, crud, here he comes Edie!"

"Edith, how lovely to see you here. I'm glad you could take time out of your _very busy_ _schedule_ to honour your aunt's birthday!" He looked up at Anthony. "Won't you introduce me?"

"Anthony, this is Mr. Michael Gregson, the editor of _The Sentinel_. Michael, Major Sir Anthony Strallan, whom I am interviewing for the army article." Edith's discomfiture was not lost on Anthony, although he put it down to merely the awkwardness of family and work colliding.

Michael's face contorted at Anthony's titles. "I didn't know they gave knighthoods to soldiers."

"They don't. I'm a baronet."

"Uh." The amount of scorn Gregson managed to convey in one syllable was quite impressive.

"My sister, Lady Sybil Crawley, and Tom you know" Edith said pointedly.

"Yes, afternoon Tom" Michael didn't even bother to look at him. "Sorry to impose work on a social occasion, Edith _darling_, but we really have to talk about this article. It would be very good to publish it next week with the publication of the Harrison Report and…" He took Edith's arm, quite forcefully Anthony noted, and led her away.

Anthony watched for a second or two and sighed. Sybil noticed and reached over for another glass of wine for him.

"How are you Anthony?" Sybil asked.

"Pretty well, thank you. It's nice to have something to do. These last few days with Edith have been…" _Heaven, absolute heaven. God I'm too old to feel this silly about a girl _"…um, distracting and very interesting. I'm sure it's going to be a very good article. So does your editor, it seems…" His eyes strayed back to the corner where Gregson had placed Edith between the wall and himself.

"He's a rotten little worm, Anthony. If I were you, I'd get over there and rescue her" Tom hissed.

Anthony looked at the younger man, and then at Sybil, who nodded.

He walked carefully over to them. As he got closer, he overheard Gregson say "You do want to keep your job, don't you?"

"Yes." Edith's answer was given in a very small voice.

"Then I'll see you tonight." Gregson turned round to leave and collided with the broad frame of Anthony Strallan.

"Edith, have you forgotten that we had plans for this evening. I'm sorry Mr. Gregson, but Edith does have a right to a social life" said Anthony as calmly as he could.

"Listen, soldier," Gregson spat the word "keep your nose out of my affairs." He tried to pass him, but Anthony had seen the tears in Edith's eyes and was not about to let that pass.

"I didn't think bullying was quite _The Sentinel_'s style."

"Bullying? Hah! I'm offering Edith…an exclusive." Gregson leered at her to make his point.

"And what does your wife think of, how did you describe them, 'your _affairs_', Mr. Gregson?" Anthony asked fearlessly.

"What gives you the right to question me?" Gregson shouted, causing the whole room to quiet.

"The fact that you have just made a very kind and talented woman cry, a daughter of this house in which, may I remind you, we are guests. I don't want to take this further, especially now at a birthday celebration, but I would think twice about making comments designed to distress women in your employ in the future." Anthony held out his hand to Edith to leave, but Gregson wasn't going to let that pass.

"You're not a _real_ soldier, are you, not really? A _dog handler_! Hah! You didn't fight. How many kills to your _titled_ name?"

Tom moved forward as if to join in, but Sybil put her hand gently but firmly on his arm to keep him with her.

Anthony put Edith's arm through his, and drew himself up to his most impressive height.

"Is that your definition of a soldier? Let me tell you, sir, in my ten years in the Army, I killed no one. With the three dogs I was privileged to train and work with, both in Iraq and in Afghanistan, we found over 200 IEDs, 37 caches of heroin of more than half a tonne each, and countless smaller hauls. How many lives do you think we _saved_?"

"Hundreds and hundreds" Edith stated in awe.

Gregson lost his patience and swung a punch at Anthony, felling him with a blow to his bad shoulder. That was too much for Tom. He crossed the room in seconds and with a swift blow split Gregson's lip.

"You're fired, Branson, you ungrateful Paddy."

"I don't bloody care. I wouldn't work for you now for a million pounds."

Nursing his wound, Gregson left. Tom helped Anthony to his feet, and Edith threw her arms around Tom.

"Oh Tom! Thank you, thank you! But, oh, I'm so sorry about your job."

"Don't be, m'lady. I'm not. And, bejesus, it felt good! Are you alright, Anthony?"

Anthony nodded, but was quite obviously in pain.

"I think we should get you looked over at A&E, Anthony. That's my professional opinion" insisted Sybil.

* * *

.

After sitting waiting to be seen for an hour, the doctor gave Anthony some painkillers and the all clear. Edith took Sybil and Tom back to Sybil's place where Tom had left his car. They waved Anthony and Edith off and stood looking at each other.

"Well, that was eventful! I'll tell you this, Tom Branson: you sure know how to show a girl a good time!" said Sybil.

"Do you think, in years to come, we'll look back on today and laugh?" Tom asked.

"I hope so."

"That's what I hoped." He looked at her meaningfully.

"Sorry?"

"That you would hope we'll still be friends in years to come" he said.

Sybil looked back at him, entranced. He took her hand.

"Because I hope we might be more than just friends, and forever."

He waited, just to make sure that she wasn't going to realise what he'd just said and run screaming away from him. Then he put his hand up to her face and ever so gently kissed her.

"Tom…" she breathed. Opening her eyes again, she saw Tom place his other hand around her waist. "Perhaps I could offer you some coffee?"

"I think I deserve that, thank you."

They went indoors.


	6. Chapter 6

They collected Isis from Anthony's friend, not mentioning any of the day's dramas. When they got to Anthony's house, he started thanking her for her help and trying to ward her off coming in.

"Anthony Strallan, if you think I am going to be brushed off, you have another thing coming. I'm going to make sure that Isis is fine, and I might check that you can sort yourself out as well while I'm at it, and that's all there is to it!"

Anthony smiled. He was quite fond of Edith when she was in this mood. He _liked_ having her around and looking after him. But he stopped himself from believing that it meant anything. That would be ridiculous. She was so young, so…

He took a couple of the painkillers the hospital had given him, and settled Isis down for the night. Then he made them both a coffee and slumped down on the sofa.

"There! Are you satisfied that I will survive the night?" he asked her.

"You still have to get up the stairs and get to bed" she jested.

"So you're going to put me to bed, like a wounded schoolboy?"

"Don't tempt me, Sir Anthony" she said with a smile that faded as she admired his face, her gaze settling on his lips.

He swallowed. It had been such an odd day.

"You were my knight in shining armour today. Thank you so much" she murmured. "Mr. Gregson…" she paused trying to find the right words.

"He wanted to blackmail you into sleeping with him, didn't he? I've seen this over and over again, sometimes in places you really don't think it should happen. I'm sorry it happened to you."

"But you've given him something to think about."

"I hope your job will not be forfeit like Tom's. I feel really bad about that. Do you think he'd accept the job of renovation manager on my country house?"

"Loxley? I think he'd find it a challenge, at least in the short term. Why don't you ask him?"

"I will."

"I meant it, you know. You were wonderful today. I've never had a man defend my honour before" she blushed.

"You are too young and too lovely not to have someone…"

"There is someone I'm very, very fond of."

He knew it. Even as his heart broke, he was glad for her.

"Good. I hope he deserves you."

"I'm sure he deserves me. I'm not sure I deserve him."

"You deserve any man you want, Lady Edith."

"Really?"

"Really."

She stared at him as he finished his coffee, mustering his courage for the next question.

"Do I know him?"

"Very well."

"Well, put me out of my misery."

"Do you really not know?"

"No."

"I'll give you a clue."

She edged towards him gingerly, careful not to hurt his arm or startle him despite his astonished expression, and met his lips in a sweet, short kiss. He sat looking at her while it sank in, and then leaned to her to kiss her back. It began chaste enough but soon deepened as he put his good arm around her shoulders and pulled her further into his kisses.

Not believing that this was happening, he broke the kiss. He was breathless with emotion and Edith appeared to be in the same state. He whispered "I love you. God, how I love you!" but immediately knew that was probably the worst thing he could have said. Young ladies didn't want to hear about deep feelings like that immediately a man kissed them, even a young, fit, handsome man let alone an old cripple like him. Edith, he knew, was lonely, but she wasn't _that_ desperate. He began to stutter an apology, but Edith cut him off.

"Have me, Anthony…"

"Wh…what?" He couldn't believe his ears.

"Take me. Make love to me. I want you."

It was too much. Anthony knew she was making fun of him now. She might have a hidden camera and…and might show it around to her friends at the office, or put it on YouTube. All sorts of horrible things went through his head. A pained expression passed over his face as he struggled with hope and despair.

Edith saw it, and fell into a similar misinterpretation.

"Sorry, sorry…I should've known…please, forget I said anything."

"Should've known what?" Anthony asked, still stunned and unsure of himself and everything around him.

"That you wouldn't want me. No one ever does. Please don't feel bad about it. Even the ones like you, the kind ones, who kiss me out of…pity…I can't help myself, I go too far too soon and they realise they didn't fancy me that much anyway and they get away as fast as possible before I turn into some kind of bunny-boiler. And now I'm rambling and I'm sorry for that too. It'll be best if I just go."

There were tears falling onto her cheeks though she tried to hold them back. She turned to leave, but Anthony reached out and held her arm.

"Please! Please don't go…I _do_ want you, so very much. It's just that I'm confused. No one's ever wanted me like that, especially not someone like you."

"Someone…like me?" Edith murmured.

"Yes, someone sweet and brave and beautiful and passionate and wonderful. Someone I burn for. I…I'm always saying the wrong thing too. I was frightened I would drive you away when I…told you…I loved you. It's all so…_oh god! It's so much easier to talk to dogs!_"

She let out a sharp laugh at that.

"I know exactly what you mean!"

"You do? You do! Of course you do!" He finally had the courage to look deeply into her eyes and saw all his own fears and hopes reflected back at him. He looked down at her mouth again feeling the passion overtake him, and he kissed her.

Somehow they got up the stairs to the bedroom.

"Are you sure? I…I'm afraid I don't have any French letters" he stuttered, his mind clouded by desire.

"French letters? You are so endearingly old-fashioned, Anthony my love. It's one of the things I love most about you." She kissed him again. He managed to break away after a while.

"But what are we going to do about precautions?"

"I've been on the Pill for years, Anthony. Mostly in hope rather than actually having a boyfriend, but I don't think that affects its efficacy. Don't worry about it." She kissed him again and this time, he had no reason not to relax and enjoy it.

* * *

.

"Sybil, are you still awake?"

"Yes."

He continued threading his fingers lazily through her hair.

"You didn't…when I said I wanted to be more than just friends, you didn't say 'yes'."

She was making circles on his tummy.

"I didn't say 'no' either."

"And I said 'forever' too.'

"I heard."

"And you didn't say 'no' to that too?"

"That's right, sweetheart."

"So you will marry me? Even though I'm now an unemployed annoying Paddy?"

She smiled a broad silly smile in the dark.

"Of course, my darling Tom."

He drew her nearer so he could kiss her again.


End file.
